All Is Well (It's Only Blood)
by Amynion
Summary: "Violence is a disease, a disease that corrupts all who use it regardless of the cause." Chris Hedges. After receiving some terrible news Aramis seeks solace in violence, leaving men red and ruined in his wake...
1. All Is Well (It's Only Blood)

**Note**: Quotes in this are all from Radical Face. I heard "The Gilded Hand" over the end of a Criminal Minds ep and this little idea I had just fell into place... Though somehow it ended up being a bit darker than I originally intended. You know when you start writing something and it becomes something else? Oh well... enjoy!

* * *

**All Is Well (It's Only Blood)**

**Chapter One**

_All is well now  
Pay no mind  
All is well now  
I'm just fine_

He couldn't hide it this time.

The black eye and the split lip.

They stood in a line in the courtyard, awaiting their duties. At seeing his face Athos raised an eyebrow, d'Artagnan hissed, and Porthos frowned.

"What the hell happened to you?" Porthos muttered under his breath.

"Angry husband." Aramis whispered back. "I'm fine."

Athos narrowed his eyes at the explanation, but nothing more could be said. Treville appeared to give our their day's duties.

Anyway, it could have been the truth… the man who had hit Aramis _was_ angry, and he might have been somebody's husband. But Aramis wasn't going to admit to goading him. He wasn't going to let his friends know that he walked the streets looking for trouble... that he drank in unfamiliar taverns spoiling for a fight.

It had started when news reached them that Anne had lost their baby. Mindlessly Aramis tried to go to her. He remembered her grief… he couldn't let her suffer again. But Athos had stopped him. Athos had taken him home discreetly and sat there as he wept for her and their child. The stony faced musketeer barely said a word. Did he not feel anything? Was he too concerned with getting Aramis off the streets and behind a closed door?

When Aramis had calmed and the tears had stopped, Athos took up his hat and got to his feet.

He paused with his hand on the door. "You can't let anyone see… Aramis, as far as anyone else is concerned - all is well."

And he left.

Aramis painted on a facade for the world. But inside he was screaming. His heart cried out for his dead child… the child he had sworn to protect… and Anne, in need of comfort he couldn't provide. Aramis wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, but it was a crime to embrace her… to love her would see him dead. But Aramis couldn't just stop feeling the way he felt, and it tore him up even more.

It wasn't long before something in him cracked and broke apart. The first time happened when he was leaving the tavern to go home. Stumbling down the quiet streets a thief had thought him an easy target. The man set upon him and Aramis snapped. A red mist descended and he lost himself in the violence. The young musketeer staggered away, high on adrenaline, his knuckles were torn and bloody… The thief was left behind, nothing but a ruined heap in the street. He deserved it, Aramis told himself. But he had discovered something else as he took in a deep breath and savoured the copper tang...

His fists had offered the release he needed.

Aramis held a hand up and flexed his fingers, feeling the sting across his knuckles… It reflected the pain inside. The pain he kept hidden was there to be seen, weeping red across his flesh. It seemed to tame the hollow in his heart.

The second time he had leapt to Porthos' defence after his friend was accused of cheating at cards. They had both come away from that bloodied and bruised, but laughing. Aramis had almost forgotten how to laugh…

The third time a red guard had scowled at him in the street. A moment later the guard's face was as red as his cloak. He deserved it, Aramis told himself again.

The next one deserved it too… Aramis might have accidentally knocked the drink from his hand, but that was no reason to curse so heinously. Honour meant he had to fight.

Before long Aramis' view of 'deserving it' became a little twisted. At night he left the others drinking with some excuse, and he wandered. He was careful not to get hit in the face, and if anyone noticed he held himself a little stiffly the next day they never said anything… as far as the world was concerned, all was well. Except last night the young musketeer's opponent got in a lucky shot, it left him with a black eye and split lip.

When Treville had finished, Athos gave Aramis a suspicious once over before heading for the stables with d'Artagnan hot on his heels. Porthos put a hand to Aramis' shoulder.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Porthos eyed the bruising with a sympathetic wince.

"I'm fine. I'll just be a bit quicker jumping out the window next time…"

"Good job you're not on guard duty at the palace. Can't imagine musketeers with black eyes would go down too well over there." Porthos huffed a laugh.

"Quite." Aramis let his eyes wander over to the stables where Athos had disappeared to. It hadn't escaped his notice he had not been given duties at the palace for some time…

"Well, stay out of trouble." Porthos clapped his hand on Aramis' shoulder and went after Athos.

Aramis let his slight smile drop as Porthos turned his back.

His own mission would see him delivering a letter to a Comte, roughly a day's ride away from Paris. Aramis pulled his hat down, concealing his eye as best he could as he went to retrieve the correspondence from Treville.

**~oOo~**

As it happened it took Aramis a few days to return, which had the others worried. He rode into the courtyard and dismounted with an audible hiss. Porthos and Athos were sitting at the table, they rushed over at seeing him hurt. Aramis straightened, trying to school his features into that familiar facade. But he couldn't stop his arm clutching protectively at his ribs. He had cracked at least two.

"Are you alright? What happened?" Porthos went to Aramis' side while Athos took his horse.

"Bandits on the road…"

… _Aramis winked a little suggestively at the woman behind the bar… A man loomed behind him. 'She's mine'... 'I think you'll find she belongs to nobody but herself, and I was just being friendly'..._

"... I killed them, but one got a shot at my ribs with the butt of his gun."

… _Fists flew and blood flecked the air in a despicably graceful arc. The man went down, and Aramis turned, thinking it was all over. His opponent lurched to his feet and ran headfirst into Aramis, ramming him painfully against the hard wooden bar. Bone gave way, but Aramis was given over to adrenaline, his elbow crashed into the man's head… _

"Let me see…" Porthos' hands reached to pull Aramis' coat open.

He pushed the hands away. "I'm fine, I've just cracked a couple of ribs. They hardly even hurt."

It was surprising how easily lying came these days.

"Alright… if you insist." A worried look still lurked in Porthos' eyes. "Will you join us for a drink later?"

"I'll see you there. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and report to Treville."

Aramis could feel their eyes watching him as he made his way to the stairs. He did his best not to let his steps falter… All was well.

**~oOo~**

Aramis sat with his friends, drinking and playing cards. He lost in short order, feeling his mind lapse into sorrow. The wine wasn't helping. There was only one thing that would… Aramis' foot set to tapping against the floor, and then abruptly he got up, telling the others he had an appointment with a beautiful lady.

He walked the streets, knowing the rougher places where violence was a way of life. Aramis pushed the door open to a tavern he hadn't been in before. A sign reading 'The Dog and Duck' swung outside, and inside the occupants seemed to be mostly residents of the Court. They bristled at sensing a stranger in their midst… could they tell he was musketeer? Was his manner undeniably that of a soldier?

After getting a drink Aramis drifted over to a table where they were playing cards. He could feel the blood thrumming through his veins. The young musketeer watched the cards over one player's shoulder and let out an overly dramatic hiss.

"Oooh, I'd fold if I were you."

The player turned and scowled. "Keep out of it."

"Are you going to make me?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I think I will."

The man got to his feet and faced Aramis. This was even easier than he had hoped. Everyone seated at the surrounding tables scooted backwards as they began trading blows. Aramis cried out when the man caught his ribs, but he fought back all the harder. A cuff about the head sent the young musketeer to the floor. He tasted blood and pushed himself up, launching a fist in retaliation. His opponent's nose broke with that blow. Adrenaline flooded Aramis' system, all he could see was red. The shouts and jeers of the onlookers drove him onward. He couldn't feel pain. Not of his body, nor his soul. It was all numb to him as his fists flew, again and again… He would feel it afterwards, he knew it would come. And then he would savour and wallow in it, the cuts and bruises reflecting the real damage within.

Aramis straddled the man on the floor. Raising a fist, readying to send his opponent into oblivion… but somebody grabbed his arm, stopping the blow before he could launch it.

"Stop this!"

Aramis whirled around to face the intruder, snarling with red stained teeth. He recoiled in horror, finding himself staring up at Athos. The grip on his arm tightened and Aramis was pulled to his feet. The crowd roared their displeasure as Athos manhandled the young musketeer to the door. They had been denied their bloody end... Athos dragged Aramis outside and down a back alley before slamming him roughly against a wall.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Aramis tried to push away but Athos held him fast. Seeing there was no escape he let his head drop back against the wall and he gave a broken laugh, letting blood seep from the corner of his mouth.

"All is well Athos!" Aramis spat a stream of red to one side and Athos flinched with disgust. "What? It's only blood!"

"Have you gone mad? Why are you doing this?" The full moon lit up Athos' face, he was equal parts angry and bewildered.

Aramis ignored his questions. "Did you follow me Athos? You sly fox…"

"You have hardly been inconspicuous, leaving early every night, turning up injured every morning… I noticed."

"Well aren't you the clever one? But it's alright as long as I don't tell anybody… as long as I don't show any emotion. All is well. Isn't that right Athos? I'm not like you though. I can't keep it inside, I have to deal with it…"

"This is not the way." Athos' voice had turned quiet.

"And what is the way? Your way? Drinking until you drown out the damage inside? That is_ your _way of dealing, Athos... _this_ is mine."

Athos growled. "At least nobody gets hurt but me."

"They deserve it." Aramis' tone was cold.

"If that's what you tell yourself so that you can sleep at night. But the day will come when you hurt more than some wretched tavern rat…" Athos abruptly let Aramis go and stepped back.

The young musketeer found his legs had suddenly lost all their strength. Adrenaline deserted him, and pain began to flare across his ribs and aching face. Slowly he sank down to the ground.

Athos looked down at him, and Aramis glared back.

"This stops, Aramis, or Treville will have to be informed."

"You wouldn't…" Aramis' voice was little more than a whisper.

"I would." A note of disgust crept in to Athos' words. "You can get yourself home. I suggest taking a day off sick to recover. You're barely fit for duty."

And then Athos deserted him too.

As he watched Athos' retreating back, Aramis found that he was shaking...

_It's only blood  
I have plenty left  
It's only blood  
I just need to rest_


	2. All Is Well (Goodbye, Goodbye)

**Chapter Two - All Is Well (Goodbye, Goodbye)**

_It's hard to keep the rainclouds out  
When the windows never close  
The house feels like a graveyard now  
Like the floorboards hide the bones_

Aramis decided to spend the next day at home as Athos suggested. In truth he couldn't bear facing his friend… He was ashamed of his behaviour and his words. The cold light of morning seemed to bring it all into stark relief. The young musketeer felt his ribs pull painfully as he sat up and got out of bed. He stood before his mirror, taking in the dried crumbling blood across his face… Aramis had fallen straight into bed when he got home. He hadn't bothered to wash, he still felt the dirt of that alleyway beneath his fingernails. Halfheartedly he swiped a cloth over his face. The blood fell away, but he didn't feel clean… he would never be clean.

It was like looking through a window at the face of somebody else. There was a monster out there in the night. Something that snarled and tore, ripped and rent… It wasn't him.

As he sat at the table, with nothing but his thoughts, Aramis' foot started tapping against the floorboards. He put a grazed, sore fist to his mouth and let himself crumple. There was nobody to see here. He could break down quietly under his own roof. This would become a place of sorrow, a house of grief. He recalled her touch at the convent, the feel of her lips… her pain, his pain, and their child… his promise to lay his life down.

He didn't want his home to become a graveyard… He didn't want to live in a monument to the dead.

He wanted to hurt.

But did he want to hurt others, or himself?

As the hours whiled away a simmering rage began to chase away what shame Aramis felt. He had expected a visit from Athos at least, but he had kept away. No doubt he had warned away Porthos and d'Artagnan as well. Who did Athos think he was to rule them all so? He had left his title behind in the ashes of La Fere, and still he looked down on Aramis.

The young musketeer stalked across the room and launched a fist into the wall. He drew it away and watched the blood run from his knuckles, through his fingers… He dropped his arm and it steadily dripped to the floor as he stood there, detached from everything. Aramis suddenly took in a sharp breath. He felt he was being crushed by the sorrow held between these four walls. He had to get out.

And so Aramis took to the night, letting the monster run howling from his chest...

**~oOo~**

The next day they gathered in the courtyard, Athos sauntered over and dropped a nonchalant gaze to Aramis' scabbed over hands.

He looked up, concern showing from eyes just visible under the brim of his hat. "Are you well?"

_No. I am not._

"I'm fine."

"Good." Athos looked him up and down again. Appraising. Judging. "Now let that be an end to it."

They were sent to the palace while Aramis was sent on escort duty.

He met with real bandits on that occasion. The masked men were left in pieces. He rode back through a storm that washed the blood from his skin. Though he didn't feel clean… he would never feel clean.

Back in Paris, Aramis didn't stop as Athos had asked him to. He just became more careful. He used the butt of his gun instead of his fists, so his marred hands wouldn't give him away. He did his best to avoid injury, and took laudanum to mask the pain when he couldn't. His facade was back in place. All was well.

That was until he fought with a man who pulled out a knife. He caught Aramis in the side, and though he hit nothing vital, the amount of blood became quite terrifying. The young musketeer dropped to his knees around the back of the tavern, and watched his attacker run away… Aramis supposed he didn't want to stick around for a potential murder charge. The knife was meant to scare Aramis off, he didn't realise Aramis wouldn't be scared so easily.

The pain took his breath away, his hands were slick with his own blood. The wound needed stitching… Aramis realised he would have to do it himself. He didn't trust a back alley doctor and he couldn't seek help from the garrison or his friends. The young musketeer grit his teeth and pushed himself to his feet. He staggered home, trailing a hand against the wall when the ground seemed to tilt before him.

Finally Aramis made it home. He struggled out of his sodden shirt and looked down at his side… he was covered in blood, and the gash was still slowly seeping.

"It's only blood… it's only blood." Aramis muttered to himself as he doused the wound in wine and downed a small mouthful of laudanum. In no time at all he felt quite numb.

The young musketeer pulled out his sewing kit and struggled to thread the needle with shaking hands. He growled and concentrated, and finally it slipped through the eye… Taking a deep breath Aramis held his flesh together and dug the point of the needle in. He pushed it through and the tip came out the other side. With blood slicked fingers it was hard to take hold, but Aramis was well practiced at this. In and out, in and out… over and over. Sweat ran from his brow and into his eyes. Aramis blinked it away, not even pausing in his work. He couldn't feel anything. It was almost as if he were sewing somebody else's flesh together. Still, he shook more and more, and finally after tying the thread off he collapsed into bed.

The next day Aramis woke in bloodied sheets. He shot from the bed in alarm before the previous night's events came back to him… A stab of pain drew his attention to his side. The young musketeer delicately ran his fingers over the stitches. They were not his neatest work by far, but they would hold. The young musketeer took a sip of laudanum before washing away the dried blood stuck to his skin. It was so deeply ingrained… he couldn't get clean.

When Aramis looked in the mirror, his face was far too pale. There would be questions.

Still, he forced himself to stand up straight and walk as if he were whole. Just as he did every day… He couldn't let the mask slip.

Porthos asked if he were alright and d'Artagnan wondered if he had drank too much the night before. Athos simply watched him carefully. They swallowed down his excuses so easily. After all, what reason would he have to lie? But Athos glared… it was that very same expression he wore when the queen had announced she was with child. Aramis felt like a specimen pinned to the wall.

Treville was sending them to catch an escaped criminal. The man, named Henri, was being escorted to the Chatelet when he made a break for it. Apparently he was accused of murder, but Aramis didn't care about the particulars. He just wanted to get the job done… The young musketeer took another sip of laudanum before riding out. It was a precaution. He couldn't afford Athos seeing he was hurt… He couldn't risk Treville being told.

Henri was easy enough to track down. A few questions to the right people in the right places was all it took. Aramis seemed to be getting a reputation in certain corners of the city. There were men who shrank away from his shadow when it graced their doorway. They offered up answers like pious men offered prayers to their God. And so Aramis led them to an old mill on the outskirts of Paris. It had fallen into disuse. Such places were often a refuge for the homeless and a shelter for criminal activity.

They decided to separate. Athos and d'Artagnan took the front entrance while Porthos and Aramis went in the back. They were sure to trap Henri like a rat… Aramis crept along past rusted machinery, motioning for Porthos to follow. There was a dull, musty quality to the air… The deeper they went into the dilapidated building the more shadows there were to hide in.

A sudden clatter in the next room along stopped them in their tracks. Aramis put a finger to his lips and approached the door cautiously. It was already half open… he pushed it a little wider and drew his sword as he stepped inside. The breath Aramis had been holding rushed out of him in relief.

"It's alright, it's just a rat…"

The small creature scampered along a table and leapt onto the windowsill, seeking escape from the sudden intruder. And then Aramis found himself being propelled sideways into the table. Henri had hidden unseen and leapt from behind the door, ramming into the musketeer. They both fell down to the floor with a yell. Henri reared up and brandished a dagger, raising it above his head. Aramis recovered quickly enough to throw an arm up to block it. But the blow never came. Porthos rushed in and grabbed Henri's arm, wrenching him backwards with a roar. The dagger fell from his grip and skittered harmlessly across the floorboards.

While Porthos secured the prisoner with a length of rope, Aramis pulled himself to his feet, trying to steady his breath. His hands were shaking a little, and so he clenched them into fists.

"Aramis, are you alright?" Porthos shot over his shoulder as he bound Henri's hands.

"I'm fine… Should have checked behind the door… so careless." It had all happened so quickly. Aramis felt on edge with the sudden shot of adrenaline.

"I didn't do it! I'm innocent! Please, you have to let me go…" Henri had found his voice it seemed.

"On your feet." Porthos hauled the man upright, and for the first time Aramis got a good look at him.

Henri was quite thickset, though not nearly as tall as Porthos. Long, lank hair hung in his eyes. The overall impression was one of neglect.

"I haven't killed anybody! If you take me I'll be hung… please, show some mercy."

"Mercy is for God to give." Aramis said coldly. "Let's go."

But before he could reach the door Henri dropped down to his knees in front of Aramis. He looked up with such desperation. "My life is in your hands. Have pity!"

"You just tried to _stab _me. You don't deserve my pity." A spark of something violent unfurled in Aramis' heart.

And then he viciously struck their prisoner across the face.

Henri dropped to the ground, senseless. Even Porthos flinched.

"We're done, let's get out of here. Help me get him up..."

But Porthos didn't make a move. He was staring at Aramis with a look of concern.

"Did he cut you?"

"No… I'm fine." Aramis frowned in confusion.

"Aramis… you're bleeding."

He looked down to see rivulets of blood running from under his jacket, making tracks down his leg. Aramis swore, the stitches must have torn when he got rammed against the table. But he hadn't felt it… the laudanum was potent stuff.

Porthos stepped forwards and made to tear his jacket open, but Aramis backed away.

"I'm fine…"

"Aramis, you're _wounded_" Porthos near enough growled.

"I'm okay… It's only blood." He whispered.

But Porthos had him trapped against the table now. His jacket was pulled open and his shirt was pulled up. Aramis looked away while Porthos examined the torn wound.

"How did this happen?" He took a cloth from his pocket and pressed it against the gash.

"A thief attacked me in the street, when I left the tavern…" Aramis wove lies like a spider's web these days.

"Why didn't you say something?" Porthos seemed angry, but it was an anger borne from concern.

"I was ashamed… to be caught off guard like that. I'm a soldier, not a child." He batted Porthos' hands away and took over the cloth himself.

"Well, you're behaving like one. This is nothing to be ashamed of, Aramis. We can't be on guard all the time, especially not after visiting the tavern… Who stitched it up for you?"

"... I did." Aramis admitted reluctantly.

"For the love of… you stitched _yourself_ up? You could have come to one of us, you fool! A physician at the very least."

"Don't tell Athos."

"You're still worried more about your pride than your health?" Porthos gave an exasperated sigh before settling a serious eye on Aramis. "Alright, I won't tell Athos if you promise to get it seen to properly."

Aramis gave a slight nod.

"Was that a 'yes'?"

"It was." Aramis' mouth felt dry. He just wanted to get out of there.

Porthos clapped a hand to the young musketeer's shoulder before bending to pick up their prisoner. Aramis checked the bleeding had slowed and fumbled as he did his jacket back up. He could stitch the wound again later…

**~oOo~**

Days passed in a daze of laudanum and violence. The tincture made him numb. It took all the pain away, even the pain that crushed his chest within the four walls of his own home. But he needed to hurt. To inflict or receive… Aramis still didn't know. It just gave him a release like nothing else. There was something primal in it, something wild… He didn't have to pretend anything. He could howl and lose himself to the pain he had to keep hidden.

And in the cold light of morning, before his dose of laudanum, when everything ached, Aramis began to wonder what the hell he was doing…

A small sip washed it all away.

It muted the pain and let his mask slip back into place…

But Aramis found he was getting careless. Was it taking a toll? Fists slipped past his defence and blows were landed that he should have easily avoided. Still, it didn't matter. The laudanum might have been slowing him down, but it let him carry on as normal. He needed it.

And then one night, mid- brawl, when Aramis was pushed to his knees, the man he faced picked up a chair. Aramis raised his arms to fend against the blow, but his left arm took the brunt of it and he cried out. Cradling his arm to his body, Aramis felt a sudden spike of adrenaline, he drove himself upwards and rammed the man backwards into the bar. His hand grasped for a bottle, and the fight abruptly came to an end when it crashed over his opponent's head. A trail of blood leaked across the cold, hard ground, and the gathered crowd roared like baying hounds... Aramis pushed through them and staggered to the door.

The journey home felt near insurmountable, a sick feeling unfurled in Aramis as he stumbled along… His arm was broken, he knew it. He wouldn't be able to hide this… but he had to try.

Aramis fell on the laudanum the moment he got through the door. It took effect quickly. He had stopped to retch and vomit a time or two on the way home, there was nothing left to line his stomach. After wrestling his way out of his shirt Aramis sat with his arm on the table. He stared at the limb as if it were something else apart from him… He couldn't feel the pain any more. He felt edges of bone grind against each other in a way that was _wrong_… but it didn't hurt. Deep, dark bruising was beginning to show, and his forearm had swollen a little… it looked like it should hurt. But Aramis was numb. He decided to wrap it tightly and sleep.

The pain woke him when it was still dark outside. Aramis went to sit at the table… it was so quiet. The only sound came from his own laboured breaths. The air felt too thin in his house. A full moon cast pale shadows through the room, it made everything seem unfamiliar. There was a touch of the ethereal clinging to the air… Aramis almost expected to see ghosts watching from the corners. Twenty had haunted his footsteps for so long. It would almost be a relief to face them... And they _could _face him here, in this place of safety, where grief lay open and raw. Aramis dropped his gaze to the hands sat on the table… they were marred, they were his, and he huffed a bitter laugh. He used to heal with these hands, and now he inflicted hurt with them. Aramis closed his eyes and focussed on the agony of his arm. It felt like vicious, sharp, claws were tearing into him. The very same claws that ripped his heart to shreds. Maybe he deserved it. Aramis wanted to break down and weep. His mask lay in pieces here, it was safe, he could let go… but the tears wouldn't come. Aramis just sat staring at his hands... and there he remained until the sun came up.

The world woke around Aramis and gradually he emerged from that detached state of being. His fingers tentatively reached out for the bottle of tincture at the other end of the table. It was time to slip his mask back in place.

When Aramis reached the garrison the others were already taking out their horses.

"Aramis! You missed parade, where have you been?" d'Artagnan was the first to tackle him.

"I… um… overslept." He hadn't really slept at all.

"Well, best get your horse before Treville notices you slipping back in. I think Porthos managed to cover for you."

"Ah, what would I do without him?" Aramis tried to inject some of his old humour into his voice.

"Curl up and die, obviously." Porthos laughed and clapped Aramis on the shoulder as he passed.

The young musketeer tightened instinctively, as the shock ran down his arm. He had hoped for an easy day at the garrison, it seemed he wasn't going to be that lucky.

"Good of you to join us." Athos commented wryly as he came out of the stables.

"Where are we going?" Aramis tried not to hold his arm too awkwardly, not while he was in front of Athos…

"Treville wants us to look into reports of bandit activity north of the city. Apparently they've holed up in an abandoned farmhouse." Athos gave him one of those searching looks… The kind that made Aramis feel two inches tall.

"Right, I'd better mount up then…"

Aramis quickly escaped into the stable and was glad to find his horse had already been tacked up. He wasn't sure he would manage to lift a saddle. The thought of riding and potentially fighting bandits made him feel quite ill… So the young musketeer drew out his bottle of laudanum and took another mouthful. He was going to need it.

The ride out of Paris went smoothly, Aramis felt numb near enough from head to toe. It made him wonder if he might have taken too much of the tincture… He swayed dangerously once or twice, but managed to keep his seat. The young musketeer told himself he would be alright. The bandits had probably moved on… he might not even have to fight.

Of course, the bandits _were_ at the farmhouse. There was a slight rise in the ground with an outcrop of rocks opposite. Athos decided to post Aramis there with the muskets, d'Artagnan was to reload while Aramis shot. Porthos and Athos would go down to the door and lure the bandits out. It was a simple enough plan.

Except Aramis didn't feel quite right. His hands shook and the world swam about in front of him.

"Here you go." d'Artagnan thrust the first musket into his hands.

Aramis propped it on the rock in front of him, rather than having to hold it with a damaged, trembling arm. The young musketeer took in a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He was sweating… his hand slipped as he tried to place the butt of the gun against his shoulder and take aim at the door. Aramis swore under his breath.

"Are you alright?" d'Artagnan's voice seemed to echo from miles away.

He didn't answer. He had to concentrate. Porthos and Athos were nearly there… But he couldn't hold the gun still, and there wasn't enough air. Aramis swallowed hard. His dry throat protested. Blood rushed through his ears as his breath came more quickly… The world slanted. He had to shoot. They were at the door.

"Aramis?"

The musket fell from his hands… his marred, dirty hands.

"Aramis!"

He followed it down.

The last thing Aramis heard was Porthos crying out.

_And though my blood runs the same as it did before  
Only difference is now I barely feel it anymore_


	3. The Gilded Hand

**Note**: Apologies for leaving you on the cliffhanger! I usually like to resolve them as quickly as possible, but I was really wrestling over whether to change the ending...

I recommend having a listen to Radical Face's "The Gilded Hand" for the complete desolate headspace experience. Enjoy! ;)

* * *

**Chapter Three - The Gilded Hand**

_And you know  
Somewhere in there you know  
There will be a price to pay  
Until all this goes away_

The first thing Aramis did when he woke was sit bolt upright and retch over the side of his bed. Only then did he realise it wasn't his bed, and when he lay back he jumped at seeing Treville standing at the foot of it.

"You've rendered yourself unfit for duty. You're on leave until further notice." The Captain seemed as if he were only just holding on to a simmering rage. "The offence usually warrants punishment… but from what I hear you've done enough of that to yourself already."

An icy hand gripped Aramis' heart. Athos must have told him everything.

But the young musketeer didn't care about himself… not right now.

"Porthos?" His throat felt dry and full of dust. "Is he alright?"

"He lives. No thanks to you. But he hasn't yet woken… He was stabbed here." Treville pointed to the juncture between neck and shoulder. "Lost a lot of blood, but we'll know more when the physician is done with him."

Aramis swallowed heavily. He felt like being sick again. Such an injury could be fatal…

"Furthermore, the bandits got away. d'Artagnan managed to shoot one after your untimely collapse, but the rest took flight once Porthos was down."

Tears pricked at Aramis' eyes, he stared down at the thin sheet covering his battered body. _This was all his fault_. Porthos might die because of him.

"Have you nothing to say for yourself?" Treville growled.

Aramis opened his mouth, but words wouldn't come. They stuck in his throat...

"No? Well count yourself lucky. It's only due to your past record that I haven't stripped you of your commission yet - and note I said 'yet' - this is far from over. Right now you're a danger to yourself and everybody around you. Whatever this is…" He waved a hand at Aramis' bruised and battered body. "Get over it."

Self consciously, Aramis pulled the sheets a little higher. Treville's words were harsh, but he knew he deserved them.

"I'm sorry…" His voice sounded so small and lost.

"And so you should be. But I'm not the one you should be apologising to."

Aramis made a move to swing his legs out of bed. Treville was right. He had to go… he had to tell them…

But the Captain raised a hand. "Stop there, you're not leaving this room until a physician has seen you. I'll let Athos and d'Artagnan know you're awake… but whether they will want to come and visit you, I don't know."

The young musketeer gave a slight nod and lay back. He wouldn't blame them for not coming. He was furious with himself… How had it come to this? That first punch he threw at a thief seemed like the stone that started an avalanche. Now here he was buried and struggling to breathe beneath the weight of his own mindless actions.

Treville slammed the door on his way out.

Aramis flinched.

He could almost laugh despite the circumstances… The thing he had feared - losing his commission - meant nothing now. It paled in the face of losing Porthos. That dressing down from Treville, and being forcibly put on leave, would have devastated Aramis on any other day. But Porthos' life hung in the balance, and it was his own doing…

It wasn't long before Aramis' thoughts were interrupted by Athos bursting in. His eyes held a cold fury that almost scared the young musketeer.

Athos stalked over to the bed and viciously threw back the sheets. "You call this stopping do you?"

His bruises and scars were there for the world to see.

"I know those were not caused in the line of duty. Don't even think of lying to me." There was a savage edge to Athos' voice that was quite unnerving.

"I'm sorry…" Aramis looked away, he couldn't bear to look at Athos.

Suddenly Athos lunged forwards and took the young musketeer by the jaw, forcing their eyes to meet.

"You're sorry? And you think that makes it alright?" Aramis noticed it was Athos' hands covered in dried blood this time… _Porthos' blood_. "Do you know what you've done? They could have killed us all! I was on my knees, trying to stop Porthos bleeding out, and you were out cold. We're just lucky d'Artagnan hit his mark and the rest of those men were cowards… If they had stood and fought we would likely be dead. How could you let this happen?! I cannot fathom the _stupidity_… the _carelessness_…"

Athos backed away and tailed off, choosing to stalk around the room instead.

"I didn't mean for any of this…"

Athos cut Aramis off. "Then why didn't you say something? Why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling alright? Why did you go on the mission? Hell, why didn't you just stop in bed?"

"... I had to carry on. 'All is well', remember?" There was a glint of defiance in Aramis' eye.

"Oh, don't you dare put this on me. I'm not the one who went out each night brawling and getting beaten half to death!"

"You're the one who told me to hide it all away!" A spark of anger suddenly took Aramis' heart.

"To save us _both_ from the hangman! If anyone _ever_ suspected that child was yours…"

Aramis' voice turned quiet. "I bet you're glad my child's dead, aren't you?"

That stopped Athos in his tracks.

When he spoke again, all anger was gone. "I could never rejoice in the loss of a child... But I will not deny it makes life easier. Look at you Aramis. Could you honestly tell me you would watch your son grow from a boy, to a man, and then become king, without betraying the slightest emotion? I would have to haunt your every step to keep our necks safe. Hell, the whole of France would be thrown into chaos if it were discovered an illegitimate bastard sat on the throne. You're grieving a child you never knew, and would never be able to know. It will pass…"

"Still, he was _my_ child... and I grieve for her as well. I cannot stop my heart from feeling, Athos."

"You don't need to stop it, you just need to tame it… but you've never been any good at that have you?" Athos sighed.

A knock at the door silenced them both.

For an agonising moment they wondered if somebody had overheard…

Athos opened the door slowly. A small, balding man stood there.

"Ah, come in… How is Porthos?" Athos stepped aside to let the man enter.

"Still breathing when I left, but the rest is up to him now… I understand there is another needing treatment?" The man's eyes wandered to Aramis.

"Aramis, this is Matthieu, the physician. You're going to cooperate with him fully." Athos gave him a pointed look and settled against the wall with folded arms.

Matthieu set his bag down on a table in the corner and moved to the side of the bed. "Where are you hurt?"

Aramis ignored the question. "Was Porthos' wound deep? Did you stitch or cauterise it? Any sign of infection?"

"Aramis, answer him." Athos' voice was a warning.

"I'm not avoiding anything. I just want to know about Porthos." He turned pleading eyes on the physician.

The man gave a tight smile. "It was deep, but not fatally so. I've stitched the wound and there is no sign of infection, but he did lose a lot of blood… Still, he is strong. I have hope. Now, where are you hurt?"

"My arm…"

"And the rest of it." Athos interjected.

Aramis glowered up at him. "The rest is just bruises, I don't need treatment."

"Why am I not inclined to believe you? Matthieu, check him over." Aramis opened his mouth to protest, but Athos spoke over him. "_You _are in no position to argue."

Aramis sat there blankly while Matthieu did his work. The only sign of pain he gave was the subtle clench of his jaw, or a tightening of his frame. The real pain he felt was in his heart once again… The physician declared Aramis had two cracked ribs, and he cleaned an angry looking wound before turning his attention to the young musketeer's arm. This time a quiet moan was drawn from between his lips.

"Well, it is broken… I will have to set it properly. I'm surprised you've been up and about with an injury like this."

"Laudanum…" Aramis whispered and looked away.

"I'm sorry?" The elderly physician hadn't quite heard.

"I took laudanum… I think it's why I…" The young musketeer cleared his throat and licked his dry lips. He was ashamed by the admission. "... I think it's why I passed out."

_It's why I failed. It's why I let Porthos get injured. It's why Porthos might die…_

Though he stared at a spot on the floor, Aramis could still feel the glare from Athos burning through his skin. Or maybe that was the shame.

"Ah… How long ago was your last dose?"

"I took some before we rode out this morning." His voice was dull and matter of fact.

Matthieu looked to the air, he seemed to be doing some mental calculations. "And how often have you been taking it?"

"Fairly regularly…"

"Hmm… well, I can offer you a little pain relief, but it may not have much of an effect. Those who take laudanum_ fairly regularly_ seem to build up a resistance."

Aramis gave a weak nod while the physician went to dig through his bag. The young musketeer wordlessly drank what was offered.

"Sit, please." Matthieu pulled out a chair at the table.

Aramis eyed it warily. He knew this was going to hurt like nothing else, and it wasn't the hurt he wanted. Cuts and bruises released the pain that he kept bottled up. But this was just damage… no, he was being healed. The physician had come to_ heal_ him, and it was going to hurt.

The young musketeer sucked in a deep breath. He hadn't meant for it to go this far, or get this bad. He felt like he had fallen into a hole he couldn't climb out of…

"Monsieur Aramis?"

He was staring. He should move. The sooner this was done, the sooner he could see Porthos.

So moving stiffly, Aramis got to his feet and sat down, placing his arm gingerly on the table.

"Will you hold him?" Matthieu looked up at Athos.

The older musketeer pushed away from the wall and started to take off his belt. Aramis flinched at the gentle thud of Athos' boots against the floorboards as he approached. A sick feeling took him then... the belt was held out just in front of the young musketeer's face. He swallowed heavily before taking it between his teeth. And in that moment he seemed to lose control. Athos hands took hold and pinned him down._ He was trapped_. Aramis' heart hammered against his chest, his breath shot through his nostrils like a hard ridden horse. He wanted to back away… he wanted to escape. Athos' grip tightened in response to Aramis' suddenly rigid frame.

Athos' lips were just by Aramis' ear.

"Remember… you brought this on yourself." He whispered.

And then the physician moved in…

**~oOo~**

When Aramis next circled around consciousness it was dark outside. A few candles lit his room, but he was alone. His throat felt raw from screaming, and his arm pulsed with an angry ache… Aramis looked down to find it had been splinted and placed in a sling. Somebody had also put his shirt back on. For a moment Aramis lay there, heaving in breath after breath, and that set his ribs aching… he could feel them now. The young musketeer pushed himself up awkwardly with one arm and cast his eyes about the room. Flickering candlelight revealed his clothes and weapons in a corner. Aramis stumbled over and started fishing through his pockets, desperate to get his hands on that little bottle… Relief flooded through him as his fingers brushed against the cold tincture. Aramis drew it out and swallowed a mouthful. He sat there on the hard floor with his eyes closed for a moment. Taking in a deep breath he let it out slowly and felt the pain melt away...

Then startling suddenly, Aramis was struck with a thought - Porthos. He had to see Porthos.

The young musketeer shoved the laudanum back into his pocket and shucked the coat over his shoulders, leaving his injured arm inside. He tumbled out of the room so fast it left his head spinning. Thankfully Serge was wandering the hallways and pointed Aramis in the right direction. If he wasn't in such a hurry he might have noticed the sorrowful demeanour of the old man… But only when he reached the door of Porthos' room did he stop. Aramis paused with his hand on the door handle. Suddenly he didn't want to go in… He didn't want to see Porthos injured and unconscious. Porthos grinned brightly and laughed loudly. He wasn't meant to ail in bed... Then Aramis remembered how he had ended up there. The young musketeer steeled himself and pushed the door open.

Porthos looked terrible. Bandages wrapped around his shoulder and neck. They were spotted with blood, and in the flickering candlelight Porthos' face was far too pale… The clean sheets covering his body were barely creased. Aramis suppressed a whimper. He looked already laid out for his funeral. The slight, faltering rise and fall of Porthos' chest gave the only sign of life.

At the side of the bed sat Athos. He was bent forwards, leaning on the sheets, head in his hands.

"He's worse…" Athos spoke without looking up at Aramis. "d'Artagnan just left to fetch Matthieu…"

"No…" Aramis rushed towards the bed.

"He started bleeding again… we managed to slow it down, but I need to get more bandages." Athos sounded wrecked. He got to his feet and scrubbed a hand through his wild hair. Aramis noted the dark shadows beneath his eyes… "I'll be back as quick as I can."

The sound of the door shutting seemed to echo around the room.

Aramis took the chair Athos vacated. He reached out for Porthos' hand. It was so cold…

"I'm sorry…" His voice wavered. "I'm so sorry Porthos. Please wake up, please… I can't…"

Despite the candles, darkness seemed to close in around him.

"You have to wake up. We need you… _I_ need you." Aramis felt his eyes well, he wiped away the tears. "You've always been there for me. I wouldn't have survived after Savoy without you… and look how I repay you. I'm sorry Porthos... I don't know how this happened. I don't know how I became _this_…"

Aramis clutched at his shirt with a vicious fist. A sliver of self loathing crawled into his heart.

"I wish I knew... I wish I knew how to undo it all. I've fallen so far, I can't see the light any more. I just wanted to hurt, Porthos… I know it doesn't make any sense. I wanted to hurt, and I hurt so many people beside myself." His voice turned quiet. "I hurt you."

The young musketeer swiped a tired hand over his face before taking Porthos' hand once again. He squeezed it... he would have given anything to feel Porthos' fingers respond. But they were still.

"I would _never_ hurt you. I would never have put any of your lives at risk, and now…" Aramis broke off with a dry sob. A crack ran through his heart, and it broke apart. "Treville was right. I'm a danger to everyone around me… I'm reckless… careless… you don't need me. You're better off without me... If there was any justice in the world I would be lying where you are. I deserved this, not you."

Aramis sat back and covered his eyes with his hand, letting his face crumple, letting the tears run. He struggled to speak through shuddered breaths.

"I wanted to hurt. I wanted to feel the pain I wasn't allowed to… and now, _this_ hurt, what I've done… I wish I couldn't feel anything. I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing…"

His hand seemed to reach into his pocket without his knowing it. Aramis pulled out the tincture that would take all feeling away, and he put the bottle to his lips. Then he seemed to realise he had given in to it, and it was giving in to it that had put Porthos at death's door. Anger took the remains of Aramis' heart. He threw the laudanum at the wall with a growl. The bottle shattered and sprayed glass across the room, there was precious little liquid left in it… Tiredness took Aramis then. It settled over him like a blanket. He lay his head down on the bed and came to rest his hand on Porthos' arm. It was nice, just drifting... and then all feeling went away. Aramis' last thought was that he might have taken too much. Had he meant to take too much? Oh well, it didn't matter, they wouldn't mind… they were better off without him.

**~oOo~**

Something struck Aramis in the face.

"_Aramis!_"

A voice came from far away…

"_Don't you do this to me!_"

The blow came again. Was he in a tavern? Was he being beaten?

Aramis was shaken roughly and his eyes slid open. The world was nothing but a blur of shapes, everything ran into everything else, the light and the dark became one another… His eyes shut again.

The young musketeer felt himself being half carried and half dragged along the ground. The air turned suddenly cold, Aramis shuddered involuntarily, and then he felt the ground come up to meet him. Or had he fallen to hit the ground? Hands grabbed at him, pulling him this way and that. Weakly he tried to push them away. He was tired… he just wanted to sleep. Why wouldn't they leave him alone?

"_No… Aramis... you can't do this… you don't get to run away_."

He wasn't running anywhere. He was just-

Aramis' thoughts suddenly stalled as fingers pried open his mouth. They thrust to the back of his throat until he gagged and coughed. The next thing Aramis knew, he was retching and bringing up whatever remained in his stomach… Those infuriating hands were holding him up. As he trembled and shuddered, spitting the last of it away, they drew him closer.

Aramis lay there for endless moments, heaving in breath after breath. Eventually he blinked his wet eyes open and the world gradually righted itself. He realised he was lying in Athos' arms, and they were both sitting in the dirt of the garrison courtyard. The older musketeer was talking… his voice seemed thick with grief, as if he had been crying too.

"... you can't leave me… not both of you… Don't leave me here alone..."

Aramis gave a quiet cough. "I'm here..."

The arms around him tightened.

"I'm here." He said again, a little more strongly. Aramis managed to twist around to look up at Athos' face. Tears were making tracks down his cheeks. The young musketeer reached out with a trembling hand and wiped them away with his thumb. "Athos… Don't cry. Please… I'm here."

Athos took in a harsh breath. "You can't give in. Porthos needs us both… and if… if…" His voice faltered, unable to say the words he feared. "We have to keep going... for each other." Athos shook Aramis slightly. "Don't you understand? You're my brother. I need you."

It was quite disconcerting to see Athos so ruined and open. He usually kept everything inside, bottled up tightly where nobody could see. The strain of Porthos' injury had crumbled away his defences, and it seemed the possibility of losing Aramis as well had brought them down entirely. Guilt dug its claws into Aramis once again. He had done this to Athos, just as he had hurt Porthos. Why did he keep destroying his friends?

"I'm sorry." Aramis whispered.

"As am I…"

The young musketeer frowned, what could Athos possibly be apologising for?

He seemed to read the confusion on Aramis' face. "Maybe if I had been more understanding this might never have happened… I should have let you grieve in your own way."

"No… you were right." Aramis smiled sadly. "I have a wild, untamed heart. It leads me to my destruction, and it would have taken you too. You were just trying to save me from myself, and I couldn't see it."

And oh how clearly you could see with hindsight...

Athos sighed out a heavy breath. "Can you walk?

They had to get back to Porthos. It didn't need to be said… and then guilt clutched at Aramis' heart once again. He was taking precious time away from Porthos. What if he stopped breathing while they were out here? Aramis would never forgive himself.

"Let me up." He said, tightly.

Athos didn't so much let him up, as haul him up. Aramis wavered a moment, adjusting to being upright. He wanted to push Athos' hands away, he wanted to run inside and find Porthos. But with his first shaky step Aramis realised he needed those hands, and he wasn't going to be running anywhere…

Back inside Athos deposited Aramis in the chair beside the bed, and he went to work on Porthos. The bandages he delicately pulled away were sodden and red beneath… Aramis took in a harsh breath and Athos carried on, as if this were a routine he was getting used to. He moved Porthos like a broken marionette. Head and limbs lolling, lifelessly... Aramis wanted to help, but with one trembling hand he was useless.

The physician came and did what he could. But he warned them to prepare for the worst…

They were left standing vigil around the bed. d'Artagnan positioned himself at the foot, while Aramis and Athos faced each other, one sitting, one standing. Their eyes kept wandering, from Porthos, to each other, and back. d'Artagnan kept up a quiet litany of words, he spoke of everything and nothing, from his life back in Gascony to the fraught nature of his relationship with Constance. He seemed to think the sound of his voice might guide Porthos back to the land of the living. Aramis wasn't so sure. Eventually d'Artagnan went to fetch some water and clean bandages. He left a quiet in his wake that wasn't entirely peaceful...

Silence hung so heavy in the room Aramis felt he might choke on it. Something needed to be said. He just didn't know what...

"Do you think…" Aramis' voice was rough, he gave a quiet cough and tried again. "Do you think he can hear us?"

Athos looked down at Porthos with a frown. "I don't know… but it would be better to speak to him now, before he goes somewhere he can't hear us."

"He won't." Aramis bristled at the insinuation Porthos was going to die. "He can't leave us… I won't let him." The young musketeer clasped Porthos' hand as if simply holding him would keep him there.

Athos scrubbed a tired hand over his face. "Aramis… even you can't keep the dying from their fate."

"He's not dying." Aramis spoke forcefully, and settled his gaze on Porthos' faltering chest. A spike of fear assailed him every time a breath took too long to come. "Keep breathing, Porthos… just keep breathing."

If fate had anything to do with it… if there was any justice in the world… Aramis would be the one dying. He had brought this on himself. Deep down he knew there would be a price to pay, but why did Porthos have to pay it? Why did Aramis have to watch as everyone around him fell away? He was the survivor. Always the survivor. Maybe fate did have something to do with it. Maybe he was just destined to have everything and everyone taken away from him… Twenty brothers killed at Savoy, Marsac, Isabelle two times over, his unnamed child… and Anne, though had he ever really had her to begin with? He wouldn't add Porthos to the list, _he wouldn't_.

"Porthos, you're going to wake up. And I promise you I'll do better… I'm not going to be so selfish, so reckless… I'm not going to pretend everything's fine when it's not. But you have to wake up… because everything's not fine. It won't be without you…"

Athos cleared his throat and knelt down to take Porthos' other hand. "I promise I'll do better as well… I won't lose myself in a bottle. I'll talk to you instead of withdrawing, so you have to wake up… You keep us both grounded in a way we can't manage alone."

The eyes of the two men met over Porthos' still form. A sort of understanding passed between them. They were both so different, yet so alike. They both carried burdens they wouldn't share… They both housed a darkness they occasionally got lost in. And they both needed Porthos to balance between them. That understanding too easily turned to hurt. Sometimes looking at each other was like looking in a cracked mirror and seeing the void of your own soul staring back. Porthos was their candle against the dark, and here it was, on the verge of flickering out...

"I'll keep you… to that…" The voice was weary and so quiet it could barely be heard.

But to Aramis it was like the loud ringing of a bell in a quiet churchyard.

Their eyes snapped to Porthos' face to find him watching from beneath half lidded eyes. A sheen of sweat lay on his brow and he still looked deathly pale, but there he was, awake at last!

"Porthos…" Aramis gripped his hand tightly and was rewarded by a slight squeeze in return.

Athos clutched Porthos' other hand and brought it to his lips. Aramis was sure his eyes were shining.

"You look… terrible." A voice so fragile shouldn't belong to Porthos.

But Aramis was overjoyed to hear it. A relieved smile broke across his face. "Oh God, Porthos… I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

Porthos' brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "You didn't shoot me… did you?"

"No… no… I didn't, but it was my job to protect you, I failed… I-"

"Then… it's not your fault." Even diminished as it was Porthos' voice could still cut across Aramis.

"But it is, I collapsed… I took…"

"I forgive you." This time it was Porthos gripping Aramis' hand. His eyes seemed to hold a determination that Aramis couldn't argue against.

"My friend… I don't deserve you." Aramis spoke quietly. Being forgiven seemed to lift a little weight from his shoulders. He thought he would never get to hear those words from Porthos' lips…

A faint smile slid across Porthos' face. "But what would you do without me?"

"Curl up and die." Aramis's tone was sombre, recalling his friend's earlier words at the garrison.

He very nearly did…

Porthos eyes closed, and his breath eased into the steady regular rhythm of sleep.

Athos huffed a relieved breath. "Maybe you can keep the dying from death after all…"

Aramis detected a slight hint of amusement beneath his words.

But if that were true there would be fewer graves in the garrison cemetery.

"I'll see about getting some broth made now he's woken." Athos got to his feet and stretched out his tired muscles. A rare, warm smile graced his face. "He's back Aramis... we got him back."

And he was never going to lose Porthos again.

**~oOo~**

The morning came, bright and cold. Aramis thought he would be greeting it with sorrow, he couldn't be more relieved that wasn't the case. They managed to get some broth into Porthos, and the rest of the day was whiled away at his bedside. Aramis almost feared his friend would disappear if he so much as turned his back. But eventually Porthos insisted they both leave to get some rest. He promised them he wasn't going anywhere. Still, Aramis had to be near enough pried away from his chair…

Athos helped Aramis home with a gentle hand at his elbow guiding the way. The young musketeer was still quite shaky, his broken arm felt heavy and his feet even more so. They walked in silence, too tired to even attempt conversation, and too emotionally drained to know what to say. Athos left Aramis at the door with a companionable squeeze of the shoulder.

Pushing his way inside it was hard not to feel the crushing weight of the sorrow his home held before. But Aramis fought back against it. They were alive, all of them. He had been forgiven. He was going to do better… he wanted to do better. He didn't want to hurt any more. It led to nothing good.

Aramis dropped his weapons and gingerly wound his way out of his jacket. The young musketeer slumped down in his chair with a wince and came to lean his head on his good arm atop the table. A fierce ache was creeping through his body to set his arm alight. He was slipping… Ghosts crept from their places in the shadowed corners to pull insistently at Aramis... he tried to brush them away.

And then he pushed himself up with sigh, the sigh became a pained hiss, and the hiss cut off abruptly as his eyes focussed on the bottle at the end of the table. He had left a tincture of laudanum there.

Aramis didn't want to hurt. It would take the pain away… it would take everything away. Something in him wanted it. The young musketeer rubbed his fingers together feeling dried blood and dirt crumble between them. It was deeply ingrained. He wasn't clean.

He took in a deep breath and tried to remember his promise. Perhaps he should go back… perhaps he should tell Porthos… he wasn't right, he wasn't well. Everything was not fine.

But he sat and stared, fixated on the bottle.

He knew what would happen… One sip and everything would feel right again, but it would just be a thin veneer layering the cracks. Still, in those moments of numbness it wouldn't just _feel_ right, to him it would _be_ right...

No. He had a promise to keep.

Still he sat and stared. An alabaster statue to regret, guilt, shame and more.

The bottle stared back.

There was no pretending this time…

All was not well.

_Dirt we find beneath our nails  
Can't be scrubbed from our tired hands  
Never clean  
We're never clean_

**~oOo~**

* * *

**Note**: Thank you to everybody who has followed, favourited and reviewed! :D

There _might_ be a sequel... by which I mean I've started writing it, but I can't make any promises on when it'll be done. Other fic and real life are stealing my time (just keep your eye out for "The Crooked Kind"!)


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